If I Died We'd Be Together Now
by dearmrsawyer
Summary: His despair had run out, his anger run dry. Spoilers for 3x11.


If I Died We'd Be Together Now

**If I Died We'd Be Together Now**

Sam Winchester swore to the world that he would hate Tuesdays forever. It seemed he'd never move beyond Tuesday, waking everyday to the sound of Asia and the sight of Dean lacing his shoes. In retrospect, Sam decided that to be the most beautiful sight he'd ever lay eyes on. But at the time, Sam considered himself destined to know Tuesday as the day when his heart was ripped in two.

Until Wednesday.

Had Sam known what was coming, he never would have prayed to wake to a new day. The knowledge of Dean's death remaining eternal tore his heart into more pieces than reliving it over and over ever could. At least that way he knew his brother would be back.

The days that had followed were empty. Sam spend the first month trying to drink himself to liver failure. All he could feel was the void that had opened up once his heart had become as non-existent as his brother. All Sam could think about was that he hadn't seen Dean's eyes, or heard his voice once more. Despite his complete despair, Sam couldn't leave the motel. He stayed for the rest of the month, never starting the Impala – never making dean's bed. He left the imprint of Dean's morning roll right across from where he slept, because he could. Every morning he would walk past the bloodstain on the tarmac because after they removed his boy, it was the only Dean left, and Sam wasn't ready to part with it.

Everyday he ate at the same diner, only because his mind's eye could recreate Dean across from him with ease. Occasionally Sam would order for the two of them, finding himself with more food than he knew what to do with.

In month two, Sam had cut everyone out. He couldn't handle people calling in their "concern". All it did was remind him that he was now the only Winchester left – something no Winchester would ever accept. Ellen had tried calling for a while, but soon enough she'd given up. Bobby was persistent – he called three times a week, because he knew he could.

Sam cursed his liver for lasting it out. He shouldn't have gone for the strong stuff in earlier times – a foreign spirit would have killed him faster.

He ate at the diner one last time, ensuring that Doris could improve her archery, and for god's sake try to keep her tray level (she'd spilt more of his orders than he could count, and from experience he knew he could count for a while). His eyes soaked in the booth one last time, remembering absolutely everything before leaving a tip far too generous because he couldn't care less about breaking a hundred.

It had been god knows how long since he'd heard the purr of the engine – Dean's baby lying dormant since the brothers had arrived in Broward County. Of course, to Sam it had been much longer than the wear on the machine would ever show. Blue Oyster Cult blared through the open windows but Sam let it be. Let him go deaf, he had no one left to listen to.

All the nights Sam had spent with salty water stinging his eyes, tears lining his cheeks, or sobs escaping his lips – all those nights were a thing of the past. Sam was not buried in grief; evolution had turned his anguish to anger, pain living on through a new outlet. Remembering Dean was no longer his primary objective – revenge was his goal. His heart hardened, he no longer cried. He didn't have time to cry. Sam was going to find the Trickster and waste it.

Slowly, Sam began to build up a tracking system. He settled in a forgotten motel in a neglected town, choosing the worst room and pulling out everything he had. He'd almost asked for a room with two kings, but caught himself just in time. Before long the walls were plastered with maps and past sightings. A box of pins sat on the bedside table, ready for Sam to make his marks.

Bobby still called, Sam still didn't answer.

His fourth month is almost over and Sam hasn't taken a single hunt. Not one. Sam did nothing unless it was a steadfast attempt of finding his nemesis. Sam spent every waking minute pouring over possible signs and trails. Even in his sleep, all Sam could see was Dean, or the revenge Sam so desperately endeavoured. He spent hours simply discovering how to recognise a sign of such a creature, but soon enough he was perfecting his methods. Every now and then Sam's heart would get the better of him – he missed his brother more than anyone would ever understand, more than he'd missed anyone else he'd lost. But he couldn't let himself fall into hopelessness, and so he bent mind on finding the Trickster harder than ever before. Hours were spent pouring over obituaries, missing persons reports and Weekly World News – for anything.

His whole mind was consumed with sweet revenge, and Sam tried with all his power to admit to himself that he would feel better after he'd kill the son of a gun, but deep down, in the pits of emotion he refused to acknowledge, Sam knew he was wrong.

Sam acted blind to anything other than his goal. Anything that sounded like a job, he ignored. He had ever witnessed a pack of vampires in a bar back in Santa Clara. he'd left without a second thought.

The old Sam was not dead. As much as he felt he'd been turned to stone, guilt lived on inside. Sam was a hunter, and he had forgotten until month number five. A flash of his brother's favourite shotgun had reminded him of every responsibility and burden Sam was supposed to bare. He couldn't stop hunting, it was who he was.

The first thing Sam did was return to Santa Clara and slaughter ever last vampire he'd left behind. He hadn't thought twice. Silent as death, he had approached their lodge. One came out for a cigarette – Sam sliced cleanly before the vamp even had the chance to light up. Sam felt the blood spatter across his cheek, but he didn't wipe it. Another took to the back room to collect a beer. Sam made sure to wait until the beer was open – he sure was thirsty. Through the crack in the door he could see three left – two girls pawing as a dark man who reclined comfortably on the couch. Circling the house Sam positioned himself outside the window behind the lounge. Sam too aim, stepping one leg over the sill and into the house One shot – two, each hitting one of the female vamps square in the chest; the arrowheads soaked in the only poison Sam was sure of. Before the head honcho had time to turn, his head was rolling across the dusty floor. Sam burned ever last one, leaving their blood to stain the ground.

Many hunts followed – demons spirits, even another werewolf. Had Sam enough compassion left in him, he may have spared a thought for Madison before he shot the beast in such close range that the bullet shot directly out the other side. Every now and then Sam would find another lead on the Trickster, but Sam now knew he would have to remain a hunter until the day he died.

With half a year gone, Sam's lost the ability to feel. Perhaps his emotions were hiding, but they'd found a foolproof hiding spot. His despair had run out, his anger run dry. All that was left was Sam's mind – his heart was no longer in it. If Sam hears of a hunt, he tracks the creature down and makes damn sure to waste every last inch of it. If Sam finds another lead on the Trickster, he follows it to the city itself, investigating everyone in a mile radius of the hot spot.

More often than not, Sam returned to his motel empty-handed, but he knew he'd always have a message from Bobby waiting, asking him to ring.

Sam never rang.

But one day he found a reason to personally answer the call.


End file.
